


A lesson

by milverton



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-25
Updated: 2019-05-25
Packaged: 2020-03-17 05:49:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18959152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/milverton/pseuds/milverton
Summary: Sherlock heaves out a sigh. “I promised Lestrade many, many moons ago I would counsel a trainee DC of the Scottish Police. Lestrade has called the young man a ‘prodigy,’ but I’m not putting much stock in that, as his standards are suspect.”John chuffs a laugh out of his nose. “You really need to give Greg more credit sometimes.”“But it’s futile. The chances of this person, let alone anyone in this hateful world, fully understanding and applying my methods are slim to none. It’s going to be a waste of my time.”





	A lesson

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tei](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tei/gifts).



Sherlock hears the faint creak of a floorboard several paces behind him and rolls his eyes.

John simply must know by now that 221 is old and certain floorboards make noise when stepped on. Sherlock knows. He would be able to avoid each and every single noisy floorboard, whilst blinded, without hesitation. Sherlock’s disappointed because John isn’t even _trying_ to sneak up on him properly _._

“Hello, John.”

“Damn,” John murmurs, voice gritty with sleep. Sherlock feels John’s hands rest on his shoulders and he melts into the gentle touch. “You’re looking rather spiffing for the arsecrack of dawn.”

John begins to knead Sherlock’s shoulders. Sherlock becomes pliant, tips his head back until it’s resting against John’s pillow-soft paunch.

“Mm. Skype.”

“Since when do you deign to put on any clothes for Skype?”

Sherlock heaves out a sigh. “I promised Lestrade many, many moons ago I would counsel a trainee DC of the Scottish Police. Lestrade has called the young man a ‘prodigy,’ but I’m not putting much stock in that, as his standards are suspect.”

John chuffs a laugh out of his nose. “You really need to give Greg more credit sometimes.”

“But it’s  _ futile _ . The chances of this person, let alone anyone in this hateful world, fully understanding and applying my methods are slim to none. It’s going to be a waste of my time.”

“Mycroft?” 

Sherlock snorts. “Mycroft isn’t a person.”

“And you came right out of the womb with deductive reasoning skills, didn’t you?”

Sherlock narrows his eyes at him. “People are fundamentally unobservant. They just want the easy way out. No one wants to truly work for it. Even when they’re getting paid. You’ve witnessed it firsthand; look at Scotland Yard. They’re all dead from the neck up.”

John tuts. “Give the poor sod a chance. It can only do some good, yeah?”

Sherlock pouts. 

John stops kneading Sherlock’s shoulders and leans down to give Sherlock a lazy, upside-down kiss. “Just try not to be a prick.”

Sherlock purses his lips out further, a plea for another kiss, but John pulls away and retreats to the kitchen, leaving him bereft. Sherlock harrumphs and glances at his watch—seven minutes until the call. He opens the laptop.

“I’m peckish for pancakes. Fancy some?” John calls out.

“I’ve already had two coffees,” Sherlock says, logging in and opening up Skype.

“Mm, yes. A nice, hearty meal, that.”

As Sherlock waits for Hopkins’s call, he’s subjected to the bang and clatter of pots and pans. It drains his patience like a sieve.

“For god’s—would you stop banging around like an animal in there?”

In response, John bangs the pots and pans around even louder.

“You are insufferable,” Sherlock shouts over the din.

“You say the sweetest things,” John shouts back.

**_S. Hopkins has signed on._ **

**_S. Hopkins is video calling. Accept. Decline._ **

John immediately stops his incessant banging and Sherlock throws a glare in his direction, even though he doesn’t have the satisfaction of being seen.

Sherlock accepts the call. The screen displays a man in his late twenties, strong-jawed with wide hazel eyes, bushy eyebrows, and short, dark brown shellacked hair. 

“Mr Holmes, hi!” Hopkins chirps in a Glaswegian brogue.

Sherlock flicks a dismissive hand. “Call me Sherlock, please.”

Hopkins nods enthusiastically, eyes bright. “It’s such a pleasure to e-meet you.”

Sherlock is already annoyed by this overeager puppy masquerading as a man. “Likewise,” he says dryly.

“Thanks very much for agreeing to this. I’ve been following your cases for a while. I read Dr Watson’s blog; riveting stuff. I do very much miss the updates; I hope to see a new post soon! But the real star is your website, really clever stuff.” Sherlock lifts his chin, fighting a smile, smug as all get out. John can hear Hopkins, no doubt.  _ “No one reads your blog, Sherlock,”  _ Sherlock’s arse. “Loved the monograph on tobacco ash. And the one on perfumes. And ‘Biodegradable and Sustainable Fibres,’ that was just eye-opening. The DI has been like a mentor to me, you know. And not that Mr Lestrade isn’t capable—he is a shining example of the good qualities of our justice system. But what you do is remarkable. Special. Different. Truly. I’m honoured to be given even a modicum of advice from the likes of you.”

The man is earnest, that much seems true. A little too earnest for Sherlock’s taste, but it’s coming from a good place.

“Your flattery is generous,” Sherlock says neutrally. “Shall we begin? I’m sure you are a very busy man.”

Hopkins grins. “Yes, please, yes. I’m taking notes here, learn best that way, so if I’m looking down don’t think I’m ignoring you.” He waggles his pen.

Sherlock smiles tautly, a polite acknowledgment, and drums his fingers on the worktable in a steady ripple. Hopkins watches him with palpable keenness.

Sherlock stops drumming his fingers, looks at the webcam dead on. Hopkins leans in.

“Let us begin with observation. Most people, and when I say most people I mean nearly all people, rely solely on intuition to come to conclusions. This is  _ highly _ erroneous. But, of course, it is also human nature. You must learn not to be impulsive; your immediate reaction is almost never your answer. Something cannot be right because it  _ feels _ rights; that’s absurd. It is not an easy feat, I suppose, to disconnect yourself from an intrinsic human quality. Humans are tragically overemotional. But you must try because it will cloud your judgment and will lead you….” 

Peripherally, Sherlock sees John creeping toward him. John places a silencing finger against his lips, and Sherlock turns fully toward him, curiosity piqued.

“Mr Holmes?” 

Sherlock’s attention snaps back to the webcam, where Hopkins’s voluminous eyebrows are scrunched in concern. 

“Nowhere. It will lead you absolutely nowhere. Now. One must never, under any circumstances, make conclusions without sufficient data. It is a capital mistake.” Sherlock glances down to find that John’s breached the space under the worktable, is crawling toward his legs. “How does one get this data? By observing. Closely. Carefully. You must hone your observation skills. It is not quite natural to observe everything, all at once.” Sherlock wagers another peek at John to find him situating himself into a comfortable position at Sherlock’s feet. “The art of detection involves an ability to weed through all the facts and locate the most salient ones. You must remember, though, that the little things, the things most people would overlook, are paramount.” John taps at Sherlock’s right inner thigh and Sherlock opens his legs. “Most people do not pay attention, do not truly observe. People  _ see _ things but they do not  _ observe _ . Always take in your surroundings. Fine-tune your senses. Then,  _ ah _ , after all this, you must employ logic.” John has a fistful of his clothed cock in hand and is squeezing it, lightly pulsating. Sherlock does not squirm. “Assess a problem step by step and remember: when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how mad it might seem, must be the truth--“

“Sorry, sorry, just a moment,” Hopkins interrupts. “Could you say that again slowly? Want to write it down.”

John undoes Sherlock’s trouser button and zip, then tugs insistently at the hem. Sherlock lifts himself off the chair ever-so-slightly to allow John to pull the trousers down to his ankles.

“‘When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how mad it might seem, must be the truth.’”

“Love it. Brilliant. That’s brilliant stuff,” Hopkins says, huffing out a pleased laugh, recording Sherlock’s words. 

Sherlock shivers as John ghosts his breath over his pants, where his cock is very clearly straining to be freed. 

“Got it. Sorry. Please, go on.”

“With that in mind, you must twist theories to suit facts rather than the other way around. For a crime, think of possible motives. Assess the process of the—“ 

Sherlock chokes up when John pulls the waistband of his pants down, his flushed cock springing out into the cool air. 

Sherlock clears his throat.

“Excuse me. Assess the process of the crime committed.”

When John’s rough, strong hand first encircles his shaft, Sherlock digs his nails into the flesh of his own thigh and presses down, hard.

“Hang on a moment, I’m a slow writer,” Hopkins says, focused on his notes. “Sorry.” 

John begins to pump, so very slowly, and Sherlock grows fully erect from the ministrations.

Sherlock takes Hopkins’s distraction as an opportunity to centre himself, shut John out, shut out the sensations. But,  _ hell _ , it doesn’t work because John’s twisting his hand in that one gorgeous way on the upstroke and luxuriating the glans of Sherlock’s cock with gentle circular motions of his thumb, coaxing out pre-come. Sherlock’s mouth drops open limply and he arches his back, lifts his hips, then reels it back in immediately, snaps his mouth shut, sits ramrod straight, internally reprimanding himself. Mind over matter. Nothing he hasn’t done before. 

John starts to ease Sherlock’s pants down, and Sherlock lift himself up. He wants John to stop. He doesn’t want John to stop.

It’s only until his pants are being pulled off his ankles that Hopkins looks up at the webcam and smiles sunnily. “All right.”

“Thenthere’s,” he starts, the words incoherent, tumbling out of his mouth. “Then there is the ‘if…then.’ If such and such is apparent then this, this, and this has made it so— _ oh _ .” 

John’s laving the head of his cock, is dragging his tongue down the shaft. If Sherlock doesn’t look down, doesn’t have a visual accompaniment, the intensity of his arousal will remain at a plateau.

“Um. Mr Holmes? All right?”

Sherlock nods his head curtly. “Stellar. I recommend having—having a sounding board. It makes things clearer when you have-- _ god _ .”

John’s mouth has engulfed Sherlock cock and his saliva-slicked lips are gliding up and down his shaft. Sherlock grips the edges of the worktable, knuckles turning white.

“When you have…god?” Hopkins parrots. “I didn’t know you were a religious bod.”

Sherlock slams a balled fist onto the table, causing the laptop to skitter a bit.

“No!” he says, resists adding  _ you idiot _ . John is unfazed by this outburst, hand and mouth now working in criminally adept tandem on Sherlock’s length. “No,” Sherlock repeats, a touch calmer. He tries to fixate on the freckle by the corner of Hopkins’s left eye-duct. “It’s helpful to have someone who will listen to you. Saying things aloud--it helps you to organise your thoughts.”

“Got to get me a Boswell like you have, you mean? Like Dr Watson,” Hopkins says. 

John makes a quietly pleased noise around Sherlock’s cock at the mention of his name. Sherlock looks down with the intention to bestow upon him the most piercing of glares, then regrets the decision because he becomes enraptured by the sight of his cock disappearing into John’s mouth, hollowing out John’s cheeks. John lifts his eyes, arches a defiant eyebrow, telegraphing  _ go on, just try and stop me.  _

It’s an utterly filthy sight, and Sherlock doesn’t want to look away, but he must. He’s already looked for several seconds too long. Eyes on the camera, he tries to stymie the pleasure wending its way through his body, making him ruddy and hot, which he had done on numerous occasions in his youth. But he’s too in the moment; he doesn’t want to not feel, for once. In fact, he always wants to _feel_ with John. 

But perhaps not...now.

He rewinds Hopkins’s words, and finally comes up with a suitable response. “What, Boswell, who?” 

“Er...James Boswell. The famous biographer of Dr Samuel Johnson? You don’t know of him?”

“Useless. That is another—another. Piece of advice,” he says stiffly. Sherlock is climbing toward a climax; he grips the table harder and tries to grin, but he suspects it looks more like a grimace. “You do not want to crowd your brain with useless information.” 

John’s mouth pops off Sherlock and while he laments its loss, it gives him a moment of clarity.

“Let us discuss the science of deduction,” Sherlock transitions, speaking fast. This is one of his favourite topics. He’d be hard-pressed to get distracted now.

Hopkins takes a touch too long to respond. “Um, okay, excellent.”

“Show me a shoe.” 

“A shoe?”

“One of your shoes.  _ Now _ ,” Sherlock demands.

Hopkins falls over himself, leaving the frame of the screen. Sherlock takes the opportunity to look down; there, his cock stands proudly up against his stomach, pre-come dripping onto the floor. John has cruelly left him afloat, has disappeared in the kitchen. 

It’s complete torture. 

On the worktable, he taps out in Morse code:  _ Return. _

John taps back:  _ Patience. _

Sherlock gnashes his teeth. Surely, Sherlock could finish it off himself surreptitiously, but he can’t imagine it’d be very polite. But perhaps propriety made a running leap out of the window the very moment John got on his knees.

Hopkins returns in-frame, holding up a boot. “There it is,” he adds needlessly.

Sherlock leans in, eyes flitting over the boot. “Rotate it.”

Hopkins does. 

Sherlock takes in a breath and says, “The light cast on your leather boot by the lamp in your sitting room shows six cuts—parallel cuts. You get your shoes shined professionally, though I use the term loosely for the shoeshiner has done a rather shoddy job of it. A quick Google search shows that it was raining in the Edinburgh area, where you work, last evening and after a long day you decided to get your shoes cleaned and shined. Where else can you find shoeshiners these days? They usually keep their businesses at major transportation hubs. The shoeshiner had a difficult time removing the crusted mud and scraped it off frantically because you were on a time constraint. Late for your train, most likely. You were in a rush.”

This feels good, normal, grounds him—his erection’s flagged. 

“That’s--that’s incredible.”

“Yes,” Sherlock agrees abruptly. “Now I’d like you to try.”

Hopkins looks stricken. “Sorry?”

“I want you to deduce what you see.” Sherlock gestures at himself. “What can you tell me about me?”

Hopkins gawps at Sherlock, a deer in the headlights. 

“Well?” Sherlock prods, feeling more and more validated as the seconds tick by and no response is forthcoming. Lestrade really missed the mark; this man is far from a prodigy. 

“I’m sorry, Mr Holmes. I really don’t think I can,” Hopkins blurts, and Sherlock is smug. “The lesson’s been great, really. ...Illuminating, I would say.”

“Come, now. What’s the sudden hurry? Dazzle me.”

“I can’t. I just--can’t.”

“Go on.”

Hopkins worries at his lower lip with his teeth. “Mr Holmes, as you know, I have a great respect for you and what you do, but if I say—if I make any deductions that are incorrect, I risk losing your favour.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t bite.”

“Okay,” Hopkins says slowly, uncertain. He stares at Sherlock. “Well. I think—“

“You observe,” Sherlock corrects.

“Yes, I  _ observe _ , Mr Holmes. That. Well.”

“ _ Well _ ?”

“Well--well, you’ve been…sexually serviced. Sexually gratified. In some manner. Your pupils were dilated, and other tell-tale signs of being in the throes of sexual stimulation were apparent—slacken mouth, heaving chest. You were sitting, shoulders taut, which suggested you were holding onto something very tightly as a kind of distraction, trying to divert the sensations. I suspect it wasn’t masturbatory, as you seemed to be trying to corral yourself into a semblance of composure quite often and both of your hands were free most of the time. So I conclude it was with a partner.”

Sherlock snaps the laptop shut and stares at it, frozen in horror. 

In the kitchen, John's spiraled into high-pitched laughter.  “Fundamentally unobservant  _ my arse _ !”


End file.
